


Hegemony: The Golden Throne

by The-Immortal-Moon (LunaKat)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - The Lion King Fusion, F/M, Gen, Xerxes | Cselkcess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21879559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaKat/pseuds/The-Immortal-Moon
Summary: The kingdom of Xerxes was devastated by the dual loss of its beloved sovereign and its crown prince. With a heavy heart, the reagent stepped to the throne until such time as the remaining prince came of ruling age. From there, the country began its slow decline into strife, corruption, and continual unrest.Years later, Edward Elric is forced to confront a past he thought he had put behind him.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Winry Rockbell, Mei Chan | May Chang/Alphonse Elric, Trisha Elric/Van Hohenheim
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32





	Hegemony: The Golden Throne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "[text]" = Xerxean

Disarray dominates the laboratory, a testament to its master’s progress.

Notes and scrolls and books, half-discarded and half saved for later, have been left scattered and heaving about the various wooden desks. Bottled chemicals have been removed from their organizational rack and, though capped to prevent oxidation from ruining their purity, neglectfully left out. Glass flasks find themselves hopelessly entangled with one another through means of a complicate tangle of tubes and wires that allows the contents to flow from one container to the next. Liquid solutions bubble from where the heating flames lick blue-yellow at the bottoms of the test tubes that confine them, bubbles rolling to the surface in timid trickles. A lamp burns bright yellow against the otherwise cryptlike darkness, pressing against the gloom in a valiant but ultimately futile effort to banish it.

There is a hushed, pervasive silence over the area. Only the gurgle of boiling liquids and the hiss of gases succeeds in overpowering the quiet, whispering shuffle of the laboratory’s master at work.

Hinges whine and groan as the door opens. An unwelcome interruption. The laboratory’s master stills over the solution he was mixing in a volumetric flask.

Irritation flashes briefly as he sets it down on the desk. “[I seem to recall asking, specifically, not to be disturbed. Or am I mistaken?]”

No answer is given in return. Frowning, he turns in his chair. The doorway frames a man who is all but identical to him, save for the way the newcomer wears his hair pinned up in a high tail rather than streaming loosely down to his shoulders. A bronze glare pins the laboratory’s master in place.

Yellow rays from the lamp paint a flicker of astonishment in the man’s arching brows. The earlier annoyance is quick to abate, replaced by something that is either amusement or surprise or a wry but pleasant amalgam of the two. With how deep the laboratory is nestled beneath the castle’s surface and how recently it had been established as his private place of study, he wasn’t expecting to be tracked down quite so successfully.

“[I’m afraid that request extends to you as well, little brother],” he remarks, tone light. “[I’m in the middle of something.]”

The younger brother isn’t deterred, and instead approaches with all the slow, deadly urgency of an angry predator. “[You weren’t at the parade today.]”

“[What parade?]” asks the elder brother, listless, as he returns to his work.

Narrowed eyes watch the elder brother dip his pen into the inkwell and then start writing something on a nearby curl of parchment. “[The parade to introduce the princes to the public.]”

The elder brother man pauses, allowing a moment of seemingly deep thought to beat between them, before letting out a small “ah” and continues scribbling. “[Oh, yes, yes. _That’s_ right. Was that really today?]”

“[Yes. It was. And you know that just as well as I do.]” Footsteps thump across the stone floor, and then a bronze hand makes contact with the desk. The younger brother has eyes bright as sulfur as he glowers down at his sibling. “[So why weren’t you there?]”

“[I must have lost track of time.]” Heedless of the glare aimed at his temples, the elder brother only proceeds to calmly set the pen down before he grabs the flask of clear liquids by its narrow, slender neck. As it is swirled, it flashes from clear to utter blackness, faster than the eye could dare to blink. “[My research is at a very interesting stage right now.]”

“[Is it now?]” asks the younger, dry.

“[Don’t give me that.]” A wry glint of humor, the twitch of a smirk. “[You get the exact same way.]”

True enough, for if there is one thing they share between them, besides their physical features, then it is the way they become absorbed by whatever entrances them. Hours can be lost at a time, poured into their fixations, while the world marches on uncaringly. Which makes it all the more irritating that, knowing this, the elder brother is down here, working by lamplight in the darkness, rather than aboveground and basking in the sunlight.

When the younger brother leans in closer, the shadows paint his face dark with displeasure. “[You didn’t tell anyone where you were. Half the palace was scrambling around looking for you.]”

“[Really? Oh, I must have forgotten.]”

“[ _Philippus_.]”

Anger bites through the word, and Philippus Aureolus van Hohenheim gives a stiff, heavy exhale from his nostrils before he turns to face his sibling. He is the firstborn twin, the royal alchemist, the adviser to the seventieth Sovereign of Xerxes, the current head of the oldest noble house (second to the royal house). He is the fourth most important man in all of the country, just after the Sovereign and her two young children. A name like his is not to be used so casually or harshly, and a man like him is not one you speak to unless you have enough of a grandiose title or rank to escape insolence.

The younger of the brothers has no such things, and lacks a grandiose name. Noble blood flows through his veins but he lacks the benefits of it. As such, he is known only by the family name they share, which is perhaps what saves him from a punishment for his familiarity. van Hohenheim, and nothing more.

In the beginning, when Philippus had rescued his brother from the trappings of slavery (this being before slavery was abolished by the current Sovereign once she ascended to the throne, messy though the process was), he had proposed to give him a personal name of his own. Titles and rank, he could not give, but a name was a simple enough thing. The offer, however, was declined—rather vehemently at the time, under the pretense of not wanting anything overly elaborate or elegant or too long to define his identity. Personally, Philippus thought his twin childish for calling his suggestions “tacky” and “pretentious”, but the nameless brother insisted also that the family name alone was enough. It was better than a number, he argued, and so eventually Philippus let the subject rest.

In the present, van Hohenheim and his eyes of flint are framed by the yellow lamplight. “[You should have been there, and you know it.]”

“[I’ve been very busy, brother dear],” Philippus replies, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “[I can’t do everything at once. You’ll have to forgive me if an event or two slips my mind.]”

“[You were _needed_ today],” says Hohenheim.

Philippus only gives a casual wave of dismissal, which flies close enough to his brother’s face that it dislodges the demanding presence hovering over his shoulder. “[Then just do that thing where you pretend to be me. No one will know the difference.]”

“[I _did_ ],” replies Hohenheim, testily.

That gives Philippus the slightest of pauses, his brows briefly furrowing in apparent confusion, but he quickly reclaims his pen and his composure and dips the former into the inkwell again. “[Then what’s the problem?]”

“[The _problem_ ],” Hohenheim begins, with a slow sort of anger that would chill most, “[is that I shouldn’t have _had_ to, Brother. You should be at Triteia’s side for any event concerning them. You’re the Sovereign’s adviser. You’re the princes’ _uncle_. I don’t understand why I have to explain this to you.]”

With a derisive snort, Philippus continues writing. “[Those two positions are mutually exclusive to one another. I am either the Sovereign’s adviser or I am the princes’ uncle, and I think it’s in all our best interest that any personal connections be mitigated, don’t you?]”

“[And why is that?]” is growled to the air.

Something like mischief, or a dull shadow of it, creeps into Philippus’s smirk as he raises the end of his pen to wave it tuttingly in his younger twin’s face. “[Politics and personal connections don’t mix very well, brother dear. You should have noticed that by now.]”

Ink squirts across Hohenheim’s palm as he bats the pen away. More droplets scatter across the stone floor and the desk and leave dark dots dancing across glass flasks. “[All I’ve _noticed_ is that you’ve been bowing out of occasion after occasion since the boys were born.]”

Mock despondence crosses Philippus’s face as he observes the mess of ink that spots his once-pristine laboratory equipment. “[Now what did you go and do that for? I’ll have to have those cleaned.]”

“[Are you _listening_ to me?]”

“[How can I not? You’re all but shouting in my ear.]” Philippus rises from his chair with a sigh that is stiff and cold and hits the stone floor at their feet like a needle dropping in silence. “[And don’t make it sound like I’ve _never_ done anything for them. I’ve been very conscientious about helping you and Her Majesty hide their parentage, remember?]”

Protest flashes in Hohenheim’s gaze, but it goes unvoiced, because even he cannot deny the effort that his brother put into clouding and confounding any rising suspicions. Even when Philippus’s opposition to slavery predated the eventual abolishment of it, and his radical values would often put him at odds with the royal court, he still held an impressive sway over all political matters. It came with the territory of old blood and heading such a noble family, and being an alchemist at that. Alchemy was the most famous child of Xerxes, and the van Hohenheim line has been entwined heavily in it since its inception. The one to inherit such a birthright would naturally have respect and prestige.

Still, the way Philippus can persuade and influence reaches a junction somewhere between unbelievable and unnerving. Not that Hohenheim can say he was _never_ thankful for the high position his brother holds. It has been incredibly helpful more than once. But, still.

Gratitude or not, he presses, “[You could do _more_.]”

“[Oh, that’s _very_ fair],” drawls Philippus in return. “[ _I_ have to do three times as much work because _you_ decided to fuck the Sovereign—]”

“[ _Don’t_ talk about her like that.]”

Once, it was believed that the Sovereign could be equivocated with the divine. This opinion has since died, but to speak so openly against the royal line is still blasphemous to many. Perhaps even more so, when such words rest in the mouth of one who sits at Her Majesty’s right side. Philippus, however, suspects that the bright flash in his sibling’s gaze has less to do with patriotic obedience and more to do with personal sensibilities.

Another sigh leaves Philippus, more weary than exasperated. His white robes whisper as he folds his arms over his broad chest. “[If you recall, I told you from the beginning that this would end badly for you.]”

Hohenheim’s jaw twitches, but he says nothing. This is not the first time they have brushed this subject. It will likely not be the last. Neither of them are particularly versed in the art of letting things go or giving up ground.

“[Can you honestly tell me that you’re content with this outcome?]” Philippus asks.

“[Yes],” replies Hohenheim, unhesitating, before his brother has any chance to finish speaking.

“[I’m serious, little brother.]”

“[So am I.]”

“[You are love with a woman who you can never marry, and have sons that people will never know are yours. And you’re going to stand there and tell me that’s enough for you?]”

“[That’s exactly right.]”

The hard stare that dominates Hohenheim’s expression speaks of conviction, unyielding and unrepentant. Another trait they share, beyond their impressive concentration on fascinating subjects, is the ability to make their gazes into a weapon. For the elder brother, this has always been a tool of submission. For the younger, a tool of persuasion.

If it were anyone else, they might have been convinced, but Philippus only rolls his eyes. He starts to turn back to his desk—

“[The public thinks you’re they’re father.]”

—and stops.

“[But you knew that already, didn’t you?]” Hohenheim asks, very carefully. In the corner, the lamp’s yellow glow flickers, a sudden waver.

“[You found out.]” There’s no point in hiding it. It would be an insult to both their intelligences.

Hohenheim huffs. “[Did you honestly think I wouldn’t?]”

No. Not in the slightest. Hohenheim may be dense, but he is not stupid. Even when Philippus had first freed him from the bondage of slavery, it was unfortunate ignorance that hampered him more than anything.

“[It makes sense, honestly],” Hohenheim continues, in an attempt to sound noncommittal, but Philippus does not need to look to know there is disappointment there, settling deep into the creases of his sibling’s face. “[What, with who you are. Head of the family, the royal alchemist, the Sovereign’s trusted adviser, always at her side. And the boys look like me—and we have the same face.]”

To this, Philippus can say nothing. Truth is not necessarily a kind thing, and he once knew what it was like to fall out of public favor. After all, he freed his twin brother from slavery in a time when it was still considered the backbone of the country, leaving whispers of radical values and insurgent tendencies to stalk his heels.

That, however, would be a pale comparison to the outrage that would stir from the public if it were ever learned that the very same former slave, and younger twin at that, had relations with their beloved Sovereign. And was the father of the young princes that had been celebrated just earlier today, when the parade moved bright and resplendent through the streets. The union itself is a heresy against the social castes. The children sired from it all but short of abominable for the very same reason. Such a dark secret would leave an indelible stain on history.

Upon turning back around, he finds Hohenheim turned away, his eyes lowered to the ground. “[It makes sense that they would suspect you.]”

Between the two of them, only one wears the gold ornamentation that denotes noble blood. Freedom, as it turns out, does not explicitly equate to status. And even if it did, Philippus is still the elder twin. That will not change.

“[I’m sorry],” Philippus says, quietly, and means it.

When he looks at his country now, all he can see is the unfairness of it. Xerxes has seemed to him harsh and unjust since he learned of the twin brother that was sold into slavery under the sole justification that twins are a bad omen. Even when slavery has been abolished, his brother is unable to marry the woman he loves—however unwise that love may be, in Philippus’s opinion, is irrelevant. Beyond the secrecy of the castle walls, Hohenheim will never have the luxury of being a father to those brilliant, bright-eyed little boys that resemble him so much.

Granted, only half of this is due to Hohenheim’s status. The other half is because of how untouchable the royal family is, how there are laws in place to protect a female Sovereign from the bondage of matrimony once she has ascended the throne. Both sides of the equation make this impossible. Unfairness is steeped into every fiber of it.

Rather than let any pity touch him, Hohenheim only shakes his head. The light flashes through his hair. “[Do you remember what you said to me, when you took the chain off my neck?]”

Well, that is not a memory so easily forgotten. How can it be? It began with the deep unsettlement of stumbling across an exact doppelganger, reduced to grime and bones and buckled beneath the force of hard labor. This then transitioned into disgust as prices were haggled over, as gold chips were offered and a greedy man smiled in mock-innocence while oh-so-politely demanding more. The end, however, was vivid with triumph when the collar fell open beneath his hands and then clattered uselessly to the floor. There was something glorious and eminent in being the one responsible for handing freedom to one who had never known it.

“[I believe I said something like... ‘family is not defined by social conventions’, if I remember right.]” Philippus’s younger self had been terribly witty and mistaken that for an exercise of cleverness. He has the clarity of mind now to recognize what an annoying prick his younger self was.

“[It still applies],” says Hohenheim, gently. “[They’re your nephews, Brother.]”

For a long moment, neither says anything. The silence tightens between them as it continues to stretch out, moment after moment after moment drawing it elastically out until you could see it grow pale and thin as it threatens to snap in its entirety. Just as it is about to give out, and Hohenheim opens his mouth to say more, Philippus breaks it with the rasp of his sigh.

Exasperation displaces repentance as Philippus massages at the bridge of his nose. “[...I will attend the next function. Alright?]”

It takes some effort not to be disappointed by this, though it would be a lie for Hohenheim to say he weren’t used to it by now. In the royal court, apology and remorse are tantamount to weakness, so such habits were conditioned out of Philippus long before they were reunited. Either out of deference or out of gratitude, Hohenheim has forced himself to accepted these halfhearted attempts no matter how much they sting or rankle him. Putting a bandage over a wound needing a suture is still better than just letting it bleed.

So he’ll concede. For now. “[Alright.]”

“[Will that be all, then?]” Philippus drawls. After all, he was busy, and it is not as though he was lying when he said he had found something important to steal all his attention.

A twitch goes through Hohenheim’s jaw. “[Yes.]”

“[Then will you allow me to return to my research in peace?]”

At first, Hohenheim looks like he’s going to protest, but his weariness crashes back into him and he sags beneath the weight of it. Grudgingly, he turns away. “[I hope it goes well.]”

Only a nod of acknowledgement is given in return to this, and as one, the brothers turn their backs to one another. It is almost a practiced routine at this point, the sharp pivot of the heel that parts them, the way they do not look back or hesitate as they part. There is something almost resigned in the action, as though the both of them have decided to give up pretenses.

When the door clanks closed, it seems to ring with some kind of finality. Meanwhile, the chair says nothing as Philippus settles himself back into, white robes fluttering around him.

All around him, his instruments continue to gurgle and bubble and trap their precious contents within their glass prisons. The lamp hums in the corner, valiantly but vainly attempting to dispel the gloom with harsh yellow rays. It is no use. Shadows beat down, unrelenting, unfathomable, too deep for the light to touch.

Only once the padding footsteps echoing in the hall have disappeared does Philippus move. The desk’s topmost drawer rasps irritably as it is drawn open, its ornate brass handle winking between the grip of his fingers. Emptiness gapes at him in answer, the black velvet lining so dark that one might miss the little bundle of oil-colored silk that sits within it, bunched protectively around something precious. The cloth whispers in his hand as he retrieves it, soft as water.

Carefully, the kerchief’s meticulous folds are peeled back, and little by little a stuttering crimson glow seeps into the darkness. The light is nothing compared to the harsh rays of the lamp, more like a star desperately rebelling against when it will inevitably flicker out. It’s just a tiny little thing, a mere pebble. Against the black cloth that now drapes his palm in darkness, its unholy light could almost be considered a beacon, scarlet as fresh blood, bright as hell’s gate.

An accidental discovery, stumbled upon in the catacombs deep beneath the castle. Nearly crushed beneath his careless footsteps, had the glow not alerted him. A theory has since curled into his mind as to what it could be, but no hypothesis exists not to be proven or disproven. As a scientist, only testing can reveal the truth.

He takes the flask into his other hand, fingerprints bruising on the slender glass neck. With a sharp _plop_ , the pebble plunges into the solution of liquid shadow.

Slowly, the solution is swirled, controlled and measured. Iridescence whispers through the inky murk, so he quickens it. Before long, the hue undergoes a violent metamorphosis, the stunning garnet hue burning back the darkness until all that remains is a flask of distilled, bloody light.

In the darkness of his laboratory, Philippus smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that's right! I'm writing an FMA version of the Lion King! You got a problem with that?
> 
> ...I can't believe I'm actually writing this.
> 
> Alright, gonna be honest here: I am fucking _swamped_ , and it's probably going to be a while before I dive deeper into this. In the meantime, I'm going to leave it here and test the waters to see if people enjoy it.
> 
> Plot is probably gonna be a little more complex than the Lion King due to larger cast and some subplots, and it's going to lean a little more heavily towards political drama (because we're working with humans instead of animals, but I digress). Yes, there's going to be some overt shipping in this. The major ones are tagged, but there might be hints of a few others sneaking in there. Features gratuitous amounts of Xerxes worldbuilding, Human!Father, and more!
> 
> Hope you enjoy,  
> The Immortal Moon


End file.
